Maps of Fate

by Reid Lance Rosenthal

  Her eyes lingered for a moment on the words, “United States of America.”

  She put that letter in her lap and picked up the second, her hands trembling slightly. It was addressed in her mother’s ornate scroll— formal, but warm—each letter with its own delicate curve. The address was the same as the solicitor’s correspondence, except after the words “Hold For Recipient,” were the words (“My Daughter”).

  She held the envelope up to the light, turning it to try and see the postmark date, well-worn after months en route. February 27, 1855. Her hand fell to her lap. I was on the Edinburgh, just before New York. Then Reuben’s green eyes floated through her mind and she corrected herself. We were on the Edinburgh…

  She held up the other letter. Its postmark was two weeks after her mother’s. She held one in each hand, balancing them. “Which of you should I open first?” she asked them, and this time it was a vision of her mother’s face and kind smile that floated through her mind. Her fingers shook as she carefully peeled back the envelope flap, which had been sealed with three small pressed wax seals with the family coat of arms. She could picture her mother’s frail hand as she pressed down on the wax with the stamp months ago, and five thousand miles away. She pulled the two-page letter from the envelope. It was on the heavy, scalloped stationery her mother preferred, scribed with her Mum’s favorite feather fountain pen.

  My Dearest Daughter,

  You’ve been gone only weeks, but I miss you, much as I miss my dear Henry. I’ve always been proud of you. You have great courage and your father’s quick wit and strength. While I wish you were here, home with me, Adam, Sally and Eve—who miss you too—I realize our unfortunate predicament has left you no choice but to make this dangerous and difficult journey. It is, perhaps, the most brave I have ever seen you. Wherever this letter may find you, far from these shores, I hope that you are well.

  Adam has tried to tell me, very gently, that you will not return. I pretend to ignore him, but in my heart, I know he may be right. Henry always said Adam saw the future clearly. I am old. Perhaps I should have departed this earth with or shortly after my dear husband, but God has seen fit to keep me breathing. I feel, Rebecca, I may not last through the year. Adam feels it too. I can tell by how he looks at me and the gentleness with which he and his family treat and care for me. I write you this letter not to worry you, nor to beseech you to return quickly. Quite the contrary, I may not be here when you get back, if you come back. As my life draws to a close, yours spreads out before you. Do what you must. Follow your heart.

  The words blurred as tears came to her eyes. She folded the letter, saving the rest for later. Her elbow resting on her knee, her hand over her eyes, she hunched over and sobbed softly. Time passed. She got up and refilled one of the oil lamps that was flickering, wiped the tears from below her eyes and took a deep, breaking breath.

  She picked up the letter from the solicitor. It was written on plain, white paper. Smooth linen without personality. Just like him, she thought as she began to read.

  Dear Milady Marx,

  I write to advise you of the passing of your mother, Elizabeth Marx, on March 18, 1855.

  The letter slipped from Rebecca’s hand, her breath wrenched from her, her eyes lifted upward, she groaned. She swallowed hard, rubbed her eyes and bent over to pick up the letter again.

  We shall handle your affairs as you instructed. You have been bequeathed the Estate in substantial entirety, some small items being left to your servants, Adam, Sally and Eve, no known last names.

  There are questions on the disposition or maintenance of your home, and, regrettably, on the remaining outstanding debts of Sir Henry Marx’s trading business.

  We write further to inform you of an Offer to Purchase this office has received on your behalf for all lands to which you now travel, located in the southwestern part of the Kansas Territory, United States of America, consisting, more or less, of one thousand deeded hectares pursuant to Land Grant by King Ferdinand of Spain, 1847, location 107° 41’ East and South of the Uncompahgre River, Kansas Territory, United States. The offer is for £100 per hectare or ££100,000 pounds, to be paid in cash upon the transfer of a deed. We understand this offer to be generous. We urge you to return to England with all due haste to handle these important affairs as soon as possible.

  This letter will…

  The letter went on for several paragraphs but her vision blurred. Suddenly exhausted, too tired to read another word, too overwhelmed, she put the solicitor’s letter back in the envelope, and folded them in the blankets she used as a pillow. She untied her boots, pushed them off with her feet and lay down, drawing the other blanket over her head. “Mother,” she whispered. “Reuben.”

  CHAPTER 49

  MAY 27, 1855

  JOHANNES’ PROMISE

  Reuben rode into the dusk in search of solitude. He needed time to think about the push over the mountains, and who might accompany him. The questions appeared more formidable than he had imagined. He talked them over with Lahn, leaning over to pat the palomino’s neck. The horse moved surefooted in the moonlight, which cast a silver net across the land and back toward the wagon train’s three large fires, half a mile out.

  “Not much to say, Lahn, and damn few answers, but I appreciate you listening.” The big horse’s muzzle seemed to nod up and down, and he blew softly through his nose.

  Reuben reviewed his mental list while he rode. He had to talk to Johannes and Zeb, and Rebecca. He sighed. And many goodbyes left to be said—the Johnsons were headed south toward an area they called Pike’s Peak, the Kentuckians headed due west of Cherry Creek, and others in many directions.

  He grimaced into the night. The longest, most difficult journey lay ahead of them. Could they find several hundred good head of cattle within a weeks’ ride of where they were now camped? He clicked off the time that would be needed. Cattle. Hire three good men. Get supplies. Purchase additional wagon to haul building supplies. Perhaps a third wagon for provisions. Teams for the wagons. The list seemed endless.

  His uncle and father’s scout indicated on the map it would be a two or three-week journey. The scout had written the same words repeatedly in different areas on the map. Rugged. Steep. Uninhabited. Ute Indians. According to the scouts’ letters, the first snows could blanket the Uncompahgre early September in some years. Would there be enough time to put up a decent shelter? If not, then what? The scout had written about winter temperatures well below zero, and snows over ten feet. He would have to acquire title or legal claim before building.

  He patted his coat pocket and ran his fingers down the lower seam, pressing against the heavy wool fold until he could feel the six stones of Ludwig’s diamonds, the family trust. Almost there, father. Almost there.

  Completely distracted, Reuben rode back into the firelight of the wagons, and without realizing it, up to their prairie schooner—where Rebecca would most likely be found. Like a magnet, he chuckled to himself.

  He tied Lahn onto the rear wheel with two quick loops. The oil lamps glowed inside the canvas. He knocked on the tailgate. “Rebecca? Sarah?” There was no answer. The flap was carelessly tied as if someone had been in a rush. He opened the tailgate, slid down the ladder and climbed in, intent on getting out his maps, studying them and then going over to the where others were still gathered by the fires. He needed to ask which wagons would be departing, and when, and where.

  The blankets on Rebecca’s bedroll stirred. So intent had he been on his plans, he had not noticed her slight figure, sunk in layers of bedroll. He sat beside her and peeled the blanket from over her head. Her appearance startled him, even in the dim light. She had been crying, and she was awake. “What’s wrong? Is everybody okay?” A single tear slowly rolled from the corner of her eye, down the side of her nose.

  He reached out and wiped her face gently with his thumb. “Would you like to take a walk? Or head over to the fires? We were going to talk anyway, and I’m not a bad listener.” Again she shook her
head slightly. “You are feeling okay, right?” She nodded.

  He stood up. “Reuben,” she said, “wait. There was mail for you in Cherry Creek at the Mercantile. Zeb brought it up.” She stuck one hand out from under the blanket and pointed, “The envelope is on top of your map case in the forward corner of the wagon.”

  Reuben took an eager step forward, then stopped and turned to her. “Did you get mail?”

  “Reuben, if you don’t mind, I really don’t feel like talking, but there’s a problem in England.”

  That hollow feeling gnawed at him again. He looked at her, swallowed, turned, and made a long reach for the letter on the map case. He paused at the tailgate. “Rebecca, I’m here if you want to talk. Do you want me to stay?”

  “No, Reuben. Thank you.”

  He stood for moment longer, jumped to the ground, closed the tailgate and tied the bottom of the canvas. He desperately wanted to read his letter. A quick glance told him Erik, his younger brother, had written it. The first word from Prussia in five months deserved attention, which would be difficult to give if he headed over to the fires.

  A voice called out, “Reuben!”

  Zeb and Sarah approached, one of Sarah’s arms wound around his, her opposite hand fixed on his arm above the elbow, and her head leaning into his upper arm. Reuben grinned. About damn time. Sarah smiled up at him as they grew near, her face more relaxed than he had seen it since their first meeting on the Edinburgh. Zeb’s expression was, as always, inscrutable, but Reuben thought there was a slightly different look in his deep set eyes.

  Reuben was silent. “Johannes wanted me to tell ya he’s out on the ridge east of here for the night. The night guards are getting switched out twice tonight, so the menfolk will have more time with their families.”

  “Thanks, Zeb.”

  “Sarah, there is something not right with Rebecca—the mail that came in today for her…”

  “You received a letter, too, Reuben.”

  “I know—I am looking for some light to read by. But I think Rebecca received some bad news from England. She wouldn’t talk to me about it.”

  He looked down the ground for a moment, fighting the constriction in his chest. “And she didn’t want me to stay. But I think someone needs to be with her.”

  “I’ll stay with her, Reuben,” Sarah said, touching him lightly on the forearm. “Don’t worry. Do what you need to do and if you need a private place to read your letter, use my wagon. There’s an oil lamp.”

  She smiled up at Zeb, her face soft and radiant. “Thank you, Zeb. I’ll think about that question.”

  “My pleasure, Sarah.”

  She lifted up the hem of her dress and walked quickly toward the wagon.

  Zeb and Reuben exchanged a long look. “I think you ought to mosey on out and talk with Johannes. He seems a might down in the mouth to me.”

  “I’ll do that Zeb, as soon as I read this letter.”

  “I’m gonna head down and camp maybe a third way toward those Arapahos down there. I probably know some of ‘em. I’ll head into their camp in the morning and then go into Cherry Creek and to talk to Mac’s brother.” He sighed. “Should be back about midday and you can tell me what the plans are.”

  Reuben nodded and turned to go.

  “One more thing, son.”

  Impatient to read letter from Erik, Reuben spun around. “Yes?”

  Zeb held his eyes. “I ain’t never lied to you, and I never will. But I didn’t tell ya everything back there in St. Louis.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m a mite more than a little familiar with that country you’re headed to. My trapping cabins are on the sides of them mountains, the Red Mountains.”

  Reuben stood, absorbing the information. Zeb continued. “Know the country like the back of my hand. I know exactly where those maps are at. Fact is, there’s some mistakes in ‘em. I aim to help you get set up. It’ll still be a strange, wild land to you. But through me, you won’t be a stranger.”

  Reuben began to say something but Zeb had already turned and was walking away toward the outside of the circle of wagons.

  Reuben let his arm drop and shook his head. He hustled to Sarah’s wagon. Not bothering with the ladder, he vaulted up on the tailgate, stumbling in the dark looking for the lamp, burning his fingers with the match. He got the lamp lit and looked around the interior. Two days before, Sarah had thrown all of Jacob’s belongings, except his pistol and two marked decks of cards, into a heap and burned them. She had found his hidden, second pair of boots. After examining them, Zeb confirmed he was Mac’s murderer. Sarah burned them, too, then moved her belongings back in to make more room in the prairie schooner, where she was spending the nights and days with Rebecca.

  The wagon still held some of Jacob’s malevolent energy. “We ought to burn you, too,” he said out loud to the canvas. He thought about reading the letter elsewhere, but this first news, this first touch from his family back in Prussia, could not be delayed. Standing, he roughly tore open the envelope. The letter was only two paragraphs long.

  March 10, 1855

  Dear Reuben,

  I write to tell you that Father has died.

  Still holding the letter with both hands, Reuben sat down on a crate, the letter on his knees, his legs shaking. He took a deep breath and blinked his eyes.

  The rest of us are fine. Not yet knowing the town near the new farm, I hope this address is correct.

  Reuben sighed. Erik, you have no idea. There are no towns. He continued reading.

  The farm is prospering and Helmon and Isaac are the same. They will never change. There’s talk of war with Denmark. The Jews, as usual, are being blamed for the unrest by those who need to do so. I’m thinking seriously about coming to America. Helmon and Isaac will never leave the farm. I have been reading everything I can on the United States, and missing you. I believe Father was right that night in the kitchen when he selected you to go. You are the right choice. I keep hearing his words, “America is the future. Where there is land, there is opportunity.” I will write you soon again.

  Love,

  Your Brother, Erik

  Reuben looked at the date. Erik must have posted it soon after he and Johannes had arrived in St. Louis, maybe while they were still on the train between New York and Missouri. He folded the letter carefully, shoved it deep in his pants pocket, blew out the lamp, jumped down from the wagon, secured the tailgate, and walked towards Lahn, a picture of his father’s strong green eyes in his mind.

  The muffled, sliding sound of Lahn’s hooves moving through grass, and the occasional sharp metallic tick of his shoes hitting rock, cut through the chilled night air.

  “Mississippi,” came the voice out of the darkness.

  “It’s me, Reuben.”

  Johannes rode up to him, smoothly slipping his Sharps Carbine back into the scabbard.

  “I see you’re still using that password Mac gave us. Are you coming in tonight?”

  “No, Reuben. As Zeb would say, this suits me just fine.”

  “I’ll be direct, Johannes. Are you going to help with the push over the mountains and establishing the ranch down in the Uncompahgre?”

  There was a long silence. “When Johannes Svenson makes a promise, Reuben, he keeps it. That’s why I don’t make many.” He laughed in a self-deprecating sort of way. “That unfortunately includes some promises I should have made.”

  “And then?” asked Reuben quietly.

  “And then, Reuben, my friend, I’m going to be what I am. A cavalry officer, but I’ll make sure you’re all tucked in before I bless the United States Army with my unparalleled presence.” A small glimmer of true humor echoed in his laugh.

  Bente and Lahn were standing side-by-side, their noses pointed at the Rockies, a looming forbidding mass of jagged, dark silhouettes rising without texture in the night, blotting out a third of the western sky.

  “Have you asked her?”

  Reuben’s mind snapped back from where it had
been somewhere on the other side of those mountains. “Asked who?” And, as he said the words, he realized what Johannes meant.

  “That’s what I like about you Prussians. A quick wit.” The two men laughed.

  “So? Are you?” Johannes’ tone was serious. Reuben felt his friend’s intent stare through the darkness.

  “I thought about it. But every time I even inquire if she’s going back to England, she avoids answering. I tried to bring it up twice in the last two days. Each time, something interfered and I have this feeling that she’s glad she didn’t have to respond.”

  “Remember back there, that morning at Two Otters Creek?” Reuben nodded, silent. All too well.

  “Are you in love with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, my friend, ask her to marry you. Moments don’t come often, Reuben. It is the one thing I have learned since first looking in Inga’s eyes, back there on the train to St. Louis.” He sighed and looked up at the sky. “Don’t let a moment slip by, Reuben. It might not come again.”

  Johannes reached a long arm over and slapped him on the back. “The worst she can say is ‘No’.”

  Johannes turned his head in the darkness, looking at the Rockies. “It is an enormous, dangerous, wild, exciting, spectacular country, Reuben. Coming all this way we had the support and company of other wagons, more than a hundred brave, strong men and women. From here on, it’s just us. I have a feeling this next leg over that country up there is going to make what we’ve done thus far feel like a close column drill on a parade ground.”

  “I suspect so,” said Reuben.

  “You all right, Reuben? You seem quiet tonight.”